


Week 2 Travel

by redwoodroots



Series: Stanuary 2019 [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 03:07:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17541503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwoodroots/pseuds/redwoodroots
Summary: Takes place after Weirdmaggedon.  Stan tells his family about the time he did a cross-country drive with a demon ghost dog chasing him from Florida to Utah.





	Week 2 Travel

Dipper sent his car careening around an S-bend in the video game. 

He and Stan were playing _Nice-Car_ together in the living room of the Shack, while Soos took his grandma out shopping. Fiddleford suddenly had more money than he knew what to do with, so Stan had gotten him to make a video game based on Soos' old car track. (Stan said it was for Soos' birthday, but given that half the car options were El Diablos, Dipper highly doubted it.)

Not that he was complaining. The graphics were so good he could see sparks flying off the rims of his car when he hit the railing. But just when he pulled out of the bend, an El Diablo convertible zoomed past. 

“Hah! Take THAT! And THAT!” 

The Diablo fishtailed, slamming Dipper's car off the road before speeding across the finish game. 

“Aw, c'mooon,” Dipper groaned, as Stan whooped with triumph. “This game is rigged. You had Fiddleford rig the game.” 

“I absolutely had it rigged!” 

“Hold still,” Mabel scolded. She was sitting on Stan's shoulders, tying colored scrunchies in his hair. “You're gonna mess up my mini-braids!” 

“How goes the video gaming?” Ford asked, walking in with a cup of black coffee. 

Dipper grinned. “It's rigged, of course. Which is the only reason why Stan could beat me.” 

“Hey! I've been driving literally longer than you've been alive, kid! I once drove 32 hours straight from Florida to Utah!” 

“Why?” 

“Uh – no reason!” 

Mabel gasped. “STORY TIME!” 

“I said I'm not talking about it!” 

“You probably should,” Ford said, sitting down on the T-Rex skull. “The more you activate memories from your past –”

“If you try to feed me that ginko stuff again I'll shove it in your coffee,” Stan warned. 

Dipper's grin widened. “Then you better start talkin', Grunkle Stan! Stor-y time! Stor-y time!” 

Mabel joined in and finally Stan waved his arms in surrender. 

“Alright, alright! Geez.”

“And be accurate,” Ford admonished, sitting down. “That's the easiest way to strengthen your neural pathways.”

“If you use scientific blather on me again I will put slugs in your trench coat,” Stan said flatly. “Anyway. So I was banned from Florida, doesn't matter why it's not important, but I hadn't exactly skipped town yet. Which wouldn't have been much of a problem, except I was banned from all the states around Florida, too... 

 

_He and Rollers had been hanging out on a corner of a suburban neighborhood, leaning against Rollers' truck. Stan's Diablo was parked further up the street. He'd stuffed so many Stan Vacs into it the trunk had broken, and he'd tied it partway shut with a piece of rope. He wasn't too keen on leaving his darlin' open and outta sight like that, but he wanted to keep his leather interior as far away from Rollers' cat as possible._

_Rollers lifted the kennel out of the ruck bed. The cat was massive, eyes slitted with fury and hulking muscle under its fur. It saw Stan and a saber-clawed paw shot out to scratch him. He leaped back. “Geez, Rollers, you got a tabby or a lion in there?”_

_Rollers grunted. “Shut up Sycamore, or I'll sic 'im on you next.” He bent down to lift the latch._

_Stan grinned. Rollers had been training his cat to chase dogs, mostly because it was too funny watching a cat chase a dog rather than the other way around. Stan could respect that. And after that Willers lady ruined two Stan Vacs and had her rottweiler chase him off, Stan had decided to hire the cat for some very sweet revenge. (He didn't actually have any money to pay for it, but he figured the entertainment value alone would be enough.)_

_Rollers put the kennel on the ground, facing the Willers house. The second the kennel door opened, Killer Cat charged outta there – and went the wrong way down the street._

_“HEY!” Stan shouted, but Killer shot between two houses faster than the IRS on Tax Day. A second later two pugs the size and shape of bowling balls waddled out as fast as they could. Stan laughed so hard tears ran down his face. He wasn't watching where it went, but it came back with a gleam of satisfaction in its mean little eyes._

_“G'boy,” Rollers grunted. He tossed it a treat and it snapped it up whole._

_Stan tucked his fingers into his jacket, just to be safe. “Great, great, now can we –”_

_“AFFRONT AGAINST NATURE!”_

_“It's a mullet, not an animal!” Stan snapped. “Wait, who the heck...?”_

_They turned. A mob was coming down the street, real white-collar type with fancy picket signs and a good number of torches._

_“Take care of our canines!”_

_“Felines don't fight!”_

_“Especially not dogs!”_

_“AFFRONT AGAINST NATURE!”_

_Stan backed up and turned to run for it, but more mobsters poured out of the nearby houses, wielding cameras – including Mrs. Willers. She snarled at him and snapped another picture._

_“We saw what you did, you won't get away with it!” She turned to the rest of the mobsters. “CHAAAARGE!”_

_Stan and Rollers ran for it. The mobbers surrounded Rollers' truck, but didn't get too close because the cat was holding them off. More mobsters were already peeling off to chase after them, waving the torches so much their signs caught fire and made more torches. In the distance he even heard the wail of a siren, probably for that stunt he'd pulled at the aquarium. If they caught him they'd probably skip jail and throw him straight to the alligators._

_Stan realized he had only one option left. So he grabbed Rollers_ –

 

“You didn't throw him at the mob or anything, did you?” Dipper asked. 

“It was for the greater good!”

“That's a yes,” Mabel said, braiding three braids together. 

“Hey, I'm tryin' a tell a story, here!”

“Sorry, sorry.” 

He settled back. “Anyway, so I'm burnin' rubber, right, and the cops are doing 80 just trying to catch me. Luckily I've got plenty a gas I'd 'borrowed' from their tanks earlier in the day. I decide to switch freeways just in case, though...”

 

_It was getting onto night but he left the switchlights off. The trunk was still popped up so he couldn't see too well out the back window. He stuck his head out the side and cackled. Yes! Lost 'em!_

_“Okay, okay, lemme see,” he muttered, digging into the driver's console. Two more ID cards left. He'd have to find a new guy to make 'em. Wait, just two? He was sure there was a third../_

_The car started to drift onto the 95 onramp. He looked up just to see a dog rush out onto the road and shouted, slamming the breaks. The car swung wildly before he righted it and ended up on the shoulder of the road, the car at a slant, breathing hard._

_“THE HECK!” he shouted, just to blow off the energy. His heart pounded and it felt like pure caffeine was doing a rumba in his veins._

_Meanwhile the dog was just standing there on the dotted line, big black hulking thing with mean little eyes, growling deep in its chest._

_“GET LOST, YA CRAZY MUTT!” Stan shouted, shaking his fist at it. “I know a cat who'd go toe to toe with you and I'd put money on the cat!”_

_The dog bared its teeth – and its eyes glowed red._

_“SWEET MOSES!”_

_The dog tore down the highway, looking three times as big with its eyes streaking trails of red fire. Stan shouted and fumbled for the shifter. His hands were shaking and the dog was ten feet – five – two – running_ right through the freaking hood – 

_He threw it into reverse as the dog's massive head popped straight through the windshield. The car swerved back until the fender nearly clipped the highway rail, but the dog went sailing straight through the backseat and onto the road behind him. Stan put it in drive and peeled rubber as the dog spun around, eyes still flaming, but now looking for all the world like someone had smacked it in the face with a frying pan._

_“TAKE THAT, YA SUCKER!” Stan shouted, laughing as he shoved the gas pedal nearly to the floor. 70, 80, 90 miles an hour. He'd outsmarted the cops and a psycho ghost dog!_

 

“Dogs are not _psycho,_ ” Mabel said indignantly, intentionally tying one braid to tight. He yelped. “He was just a misunderstood fluff pup.”

“The size of a motorcycle!” Stan retorted. “For a split-second when it jumped for my throat I thought Cerberus had come for my soul!”

“Do you even have a soul?” Dipper asked, and Stan whacked him with a magazine. Dipper laughed. 

Ford leaned forward. “Did it happen to leave any saliva samples in the car? How did the windshield affect it? When it attacked –”

“I was fine, thanks for asking,” Stan said drily. “Now are you gonna spout nerd words or can I get back to my story?” 

“...Resume. Please,” Ford added. Stan saw his sixth finger twitched and he smirked, knowing how hard Ford had to work to shut himself up. 

He leaned back in his chair. “So I head down the highway, through the gumbo states and the I-can't-believe-people-friggin'-live-here states where the only lawn ornaments are a coupla rocks and a whole lotta sand. Cops wouldn't have exactly been happy to see me, but the real reason I didn't stop was because ol' Cerby was literally dogging my footsteps. I'd see it every ten minutes on the highway, running on the shoulder and snapping at me, or in the shadows of the diners where I tried to stop and eat...” 

 

_Stan's hands were shaking. He'd been driving now for 34 hours straight. Last time he'd seen the dog had been three miles ago when he'd stopped to get gas. He'd thought he was safe until he looked up and saw a pair of creepy peepers glowing from the alley behind the gas station. Then he'd jumped in the car and beat his own record for how fast he fled a town._

_He glanced at the gas. Nearly on E, and so was he – hadn't driven so far, so fast, in so long since that one time he'd played poker up in Philly. (It involved a fried chicken and a few very unhappy mobsters.) But the thugs they'd sent had all been punchable._ This _thing was all...go-through-y. No way to punch that. Ford would know –_

_Okay, well, maybe he wouldn't need to worry, right? After the first time when it took a run at his car, it had kept its distance. Running alongside the car when there was nobody else around (even on the fricking freeway!!) or sticking to the shadows. Hated company, wanted to hide. Stan was starting to really relate._

_The next town on the map was Hideout, Utah, population zilch. Which sounded bad, but meant two things: One, the buildings would be spread thinner than butter on cafeteria toast. No way for Cerberus to come boiling out of alleys if there weren't any alleys to start with. And two, there'd be maybe one fuzz car and a driver who played solitaire at his desk all day long. With everybody in a small town often bored out of their skulls, his marks would come to him for entertainment – and Mr. Fuzz wouldn't catch on until he was long gone!_

_He pulled into town. There were about three paved roads, two general stores, coupla restaurants, a gas station, and a clinic that advertised its services to both humans and animals. A few locals were walking around jabbering at each other and generally pretending they had stuff to do. Perfect. Food, gas, suckers, and that cop car was nowhere in sight._

_Stan headed for the gas station. Still didn't have any cash, but if he dumped water on the engine to make it steam, he could guilt a few local suckers into helping him out. That never got old, even when he wasn't low on gas. He started to turn into the station's parking lot._

_And saw the red eyes gleaming from behind a dumpster._

_“Aw, come ON!”_

_The dog lunged. Its body went see-through and steamed in the sun, but its eyes burned hot as ever._

_Stan shouted and shot down the street, burning rubber. The town hicks turned to gawk but the dog just sped right through them – as in right through them, not even slowing down as its ugly mug went straight through some old lady's cane. Stan hung a left around a restaurant but the dog cut him off and he pulled a U-turn, going back down the wrong side of the road and then through an alley between two restaurants. He was hoping the smell of rotting meat would slow it down, but the dog kept right on moving. Stan was now back on the main road, heading for the station, but the dog was less than two car lengths behind him. He hit the gas._

_The engine sputtered._

_“What?! No, no, c'mon, c'mon!”_

_It sputtered again, choked, and died on the spot. The dog was almost on top of him. Stan swung the car hard left and alongside the station. Bad plan – he hadn't noticed the chainlink fence at the back of the station, topped with barbed wire. Who the heck did they think they were keeping out?! The fence was only on one side of the building!_

_He grabbed his bat, leaped from his car, and scrambled up onto the dumpster just as the dog skidded to a stop a few yards away. Its teeth were bared and it was definitely still smoking, which didn't seem to bother it in the slightest._

_“I'm warnin' you!” Stan shouted. Sweat poured down his face and his hands were clammy, but he tightened his grip. “That's right, you better keep your distance! You don't wanna see what this bat can do!”_

_The dog lowered its head –_

_– and swung his nose away from Stan, pointing at the car's trunk. There was a weird squealing noise coming from inside._

_Stan blinked. What, had a Stan Vac popped and it wanted one as a chew toy?_

_The dog glanced up, snarled at him, and pointed more insistently at the trunk. Stan hopped down, keeping his eyes on the dog the whole time, and edged closer to the trunk. He undid the rope with one hand and it popped up._

_“What the – ?”_

_It was puppies! A whole trunk full a rolly-polly drool machines! And sittin' at the back were those two pudgy pugs from Florida, only they weren't anywhere near as round as before. And there were some very weird-looking fluid stains all over the carpeted interior._

_Stan scowled. “Do I even wanna know –”_

_“PUPPIES!”_

_He spun around. The townhicks had finally caught up to him and they were coming around the gas station corner, faces shining with excitement. He heard the word “puppies” being passed around like a hot potato. One lady was already clutching at her purse like she couldn't wait to give Stan her life savings._

_“Oh, I always, always wanted a pug! Are they for sale?”_

_A huge grin split Stan's face. “You better believe it! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! These fine animals are in perfect health! Only ten – wait, a hundred bucks a pup!”_

_Immediately everybody started clamoring to buy 'em. He jumped on the roof of the car and took offers, while the townsfolk pushed their own prices higher and higher._

_“Two hundred!”_

_“I've got two twenty-five!”_

_“Wait wait three hundred and two packs of Pitt soda!”_

_“FOUR HUNDRED AND A TABLECLOTH FROM THE CIVIL WAR!”_

_Stan almost laughed. These morons were bleeding their own pockets dry for 'im!_

_He ended up selling them as family deals – the first pug and its kids to an old lady and the second to some wannabe cowboy with a gold-buckled Stetson. He was just handing the second guy his cash when he heard the wee-woo of a lone siren._

_“THANKSALOTFOLKSGOTTAGOBYE!”_

_He jumped in his car and sped off, the lining of his jacket stuffed with cash – not to mention a few bits of jewelry he'd pickpocketed right offa their fingers. The cop car appeared for a second in the distance, then Stan went around a bend and lost it._

_“Ha! Bet they never even saw my face! Good luck followin' m–”_

_He broke off and looked around, spooked on reflex, but his four-legged stalker was nowhere in sight. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen it since those townsfolk showed up and started clamoring to buy those dogs. He drove for another full hour, just to be sure, but the only four-legged stuff on the highway was the occasional passing car and the occasional mangy coyote._

_A grin spread over his face. He'd ditched several states' worth of cops, made a load of cash – and he hadn't seen that slobber stalker since Hideout. He grinned, then yawned so wide his jaw cracked. Next town he came to, he was gonna find a new ID guy, a fresh load of pugs, and the fluffiest hotel bed money could buy. He was finally demon dog-free!_

 

“Indeed you were,” Ford said with confidence. “Ghosts generally have a reason for doing what they do. I suspect that the dog initially attacked you because you almost hit it, but when it went through your vehicle it saw the dogs in your open trunk. That was probably why it followed you but didn't attack. After you'd...er, _distributed_ the puppies, it had no more reason to follow you.” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Says you. Took awhile, but soon's I set up pug trafficking in Gravity Falls it kept popping up like a really demonic daisy.”

Ford and Mabel both gasped. “It _does?!_ ” 

“Yeah, it'll just waltz right through the wall and curl up on my chair. Try lint-rolling spectral dog hair, you have to wait for it to phase through the fabric. Although I did get it to pose for a paint–”

Mabel squealed so loud Stan got feedback from his hearing aids. 

“OW! Mabel!” 

“GRUNKLE STAN THERE IS A STRAY GHOST PUPPY WHO COMES TO VISIT YOU AND I MUST PET IT RIGHT NOW!” 

Stan smirked. “Alright, go get one – no no, five high-quality steaks from the butcher's and a bottle of Honeysmoke Meat Sauce. That'll lure it here no problem!”

“EXCELLENT I SHALL RETURN SHORTLY!” 

“Same here!” Ford leapt to his feet. “A ghost that can traverse long distances – has to be category 7, maybe 8 – I need to set up recording devices! Dipper, to my lab, quickly!” 

They dashed from the room. Dipper gave Stan a look. 

“Grunkle Stan, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Honeysmoke your favorite kind of steak dressing?” 

“Yep! By the way I've been playing Nice-Car for the last five minutes in your FACE!” 

Dipper whirled around. Stan's car crossed the checkered finish line, the TV screamed “Winner!” and Stan's car popped up on a revolving first-place platform.

“Wh – that doesn't count!” 

Stan grinned and waved the control in Dipper's face. “Think again, kid! I can drive circles around any sucker, cop, kid, or hellhound! Now go do nerd things while Mabel gets my victory dinner.” 

“No way. I call rematch, right here, right now, and if I win I get to eat all your steak and make you watch.”

“Ha! You're on, kid!”

**Author's Note:**

> The steaks are the stakes! AHAHAHAHA yeah
> 
> Also there is actually a place called Hideout in Utah and I couldn't not use it for this fic!
> 
> MAJOR props to @Nour386. This thing took me 3 weeks to write and he was supportive, encouraging, and gave good feedback. Any residual awkward-dorkiness is mine to own >,<”


End file.
